Handsome Devil
by Hellerina
Summary: Jack's relationship with women was never what you'd call simple. One-shot.


**Author's note:** This is just a random idea that came to me after reading the Oscar Wilde quote below, it's just a bit of exploration into the effect that Captain Jack has on women, and how they ALWAYS seem to forgive him...

**Disclaimer:** As much as I would like it to be true, I have no claim on Jack, he belongs to disney, dammit!

"_Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship."  
__-_**Oscar Wilde**

She hadn't expected to see him again. The handsome stranger that had waltzed into the bar those two years ago had taken her completely by surprise. She'd never met anyone like him, nor did she expect to ever meet anyone quite so remarkable again. The man had commanded attention from the second he entered the room, and he'd looked at _her_. He looked at her with eyes that promised everything, and a smile that captivated you from the moment you saw it. Everything about him was hypnotic, and she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. In retrospect, she was ashamed about how easily he'd found his way up her skirts. Before he'd bedded her he'd made her feel like a goddess, and she'd been sure that what had happened between them was more than simple lust. But when she awoke the next morning, there was no trace of him, save for the crumpled sheets and her state of undress, and a battered leather purse on the table. That was the biggest insult of them all; the undeniable proof that she had been little more than a common street whore. He had left without a trace, and somehow he'd taken with him much more than her virtue.

Despite the wrong he'd done to her, she still found herself dreaming of her dark stranger. She would often drift off amongst images of his gold-glinted smile and memories of how his touch had felt upon her skin. It was during one such reverie that the man himself appeared, with the same smile on his face, and the same charm. At first she fancied that she was dreaming yet again, but rather than the gushing apologies and confessions of undying love that often followed in her imagination, she was met with a casual toss of a coin, and a request for a pint of their finest rum. The world came rushing back to her in one blinding crash, and she stood in shock, unable to form words, and completely torn between ecstasy and fury. Apparently the latter won out, as the next thing she knew the whole tavern had come to a standstill, and there was an odd stinging sensation in her palm. Slowly, she realised with horror that she'd slapped him, and with considerable force it seemed. He turned to face her slowly, one hand going up to rub his stinging face and looked at her indignantly.

"I'm not sure I deserved that." He said nonchalantly, and anger overtook her again, sending him spinning away from her. This time he had the common sense to back away before opening his mouth.

"Bloody hell..." Once he'd finally made eye contact with her, something seemed to have clicked within his mind, and the disarming smile he'd plastered over his face faded remarkably quickly. By this point the shock had faded, and quickly she found herself able to form words.

"You don't even know who I am, do you?" She asked him rhetorically, desperately fighting the tears that were stinging her eyes, and clinging to the little dignity that she had left. She rounded on him, her hand clasped around a broom, as he backed away slowly, a calculating look in his eye.

"'Course I do," He said, a little too quickly, "How could I forget such a lovely face as yours, Miss, Jo-" She interrupted him by swinging the broom at his head. He'd cursed and ducked just in time, only to find himself dodging yet another swing, seeing no other alternative, he grabbed the broom handle and pulled hard, which sent the livid woman flying straight into him. In one fluid movement he had hold of both of her wrists, and was grinning in satisfaction, as she feebly struggled to escape.

"Now then, what say we continue this conversation on more agreeable terms, savvy?" He'd used proximity for effect and she calmed, nodding mutely, finding herself staring into his deep brown eyes, and quickly forgetting why she was even angry with him in the first place.

The next morning had been similar to the morning after his first visit, except for the hastily scrawled note that rested on her bedside table. She picked the note up and ran her fingers over it, knowing that it could only be from her lover of the previous night. Part of her told herself that it had been a sweet gesture and that she had not merely been someone to warm his bed, but then she gave a cynical snort, and figured it had probably been left there as a way to ensure that she would not greet him in the same way the next time he saw fit to grace her with his presence. He needn't have bothered anyway, it wasn't as if she could read, he could have scrawled a load of insults onto a piece of paper and she still would have told herself that it was some sort of romantic verse, written for her by her gentleman of fortune. Once again it unsettled her how easily she'd fallen into the role of a wanton doxy, but there had been less regret attached to their second night together. The months after he left passed by with ease, and she found that she thought about him less as time went by, eventually his memory faded to little more than a ghost that would visit her in her dreams.

Several years passed before she saw him again. She'd grown older, and the years of hard work had not been kind to her, yet amazingly, he appeared to have remained the same. It didn't take long, however, for her to notice a subtle change. His smile seemed less easy, and his movements only slightly less energetic, it was a small difference, a sign that time took its toll on everyone. She'd looked at him differently then. Before he had been like a demi-god, a man who was eternal; how could something as trivial as time impede someone so remarkable? This time she treasured her time with him, keenly aware that it was most likely the last she'd see of him. She had taken care to learn every part of him; every scar, every line of his body was examined. It had been a blow to discover him gone in the morning. This time there was no trace, no sign that he'd been there, except for the musky scent of salt, alcohol and sweat that lingered on her pillow. A sudden chill came over her, and she pulled the blankets closer about herself, keenly aware of how alone she was. Somehow she knew deep down that he would not visit again. The night they'd spent together had been their last.


End file.
